


be his love and not his prey

by the_ragnarok



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Coming Untouched, Humiliation, Lack of Communication, M/M, Rimming, Voyeurism, trans jon sims
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21991435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: After "Scrutiny", instead of asking Basira to intervene, Martin makes a suggestion to Jon: if he wants to compel someone's trauma from them, he can come to Martin.Turns out that trauma isn't what Beholding wants from Martin.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 20
Kudos: 174





	be his love and not his prey

[Now]

Martin's kneeling on the floor, thighs uncomfortably spread, hands clutched together behind his back. The room is chilly but his face feels warm - no, hot. He's so hard it aches.

Across the room, Jon is looking at him. Sitting on a dining room chair, fully dressed. He doesn't look affected at all except for the hunger in his eyes. "Is this what you were thinking about?"

Martin makes a cracked groan. He wants to say yes, wants that to be the end of it, but Jon's _looking_ at him and words come tumbling out of Martin's mouth. "I was imagining your cock in my mouth." He blushes even harder.

Jon blinks. "Well, that's not going to happen."

"I know," Martin snaps, humiliated. His cock throbs.

Jon eyes it with interest. "Is that what you're after? Do you want to beg for what you can't have?"

Martin moans, because _fuck_ Jon, fuck his beautiful, untouchable self. Fuck him for asking like an Archivist, when Martin can't help but let out a low, broken, "Yes."

Jon shifts in his chair. He's not hard, Martin would stake money on it. He's just looking at Martin avidly, like Martin's stupid, shameful secrets matter. "Go on, then."

The compulsion isn't even that strong. The truth is that Martin _wants_ to do this, wants to tell Jon, "I want you so much, please, I dream about you and I wake up with messy sheets. Please let me touch you."

"That's not going to happen," Jon says again. "Please keep going."

Martin sobs, but he does it. Does everything Jon asks.

"Do you want to come?" Jon asks, finally, long after Martin starts feeling like he's repeating himself.

Martin can't even bear to look at Jon anymore. "Yes."

" **Come** ," Jon says, his voice ringing through Martin's bones, wringing him and making him spasm. Then it's over, and there's a mess on the floor. "Do you want to clean it up?"

He's not talking about getting a wet wipe and they both know that. Martin trembles. He's _tired_ , his muscles protesting the position and his knees protesting the hard floor. He can't.

Jon exhales. Static shock runs down Martin's spine. "Martin. **Do** you want to clean it up?"

Martin bows his head, closes his eyes, and chokes out a miserable, "Yes."

"So go ahead and clean it up."

Martin bends slowly, fighting against the motion all the way until he licks up his own cooling come from the floor.

Jon watches. Even with his own eyes downcast, Martin can feel it.

* * *

[Then]

Martin rewound the tape recorder for the fourth time.

"He says he works here, at the - the Magnus Institution, and I say what even is that, and he says he wants my story.

He says he needs to hear what happened to me, and I -"

Still the same words as before. He rewound again.

"He says he wants my story. He says he needs to hear what happened to me-"

The whir of the tape as Martin rewound it once more was like saying a word too many times in a row, until it lost all meaning. Maybe that was what he was after. Maybe if he'll hear this enough times, he'll stop thinking about Jon accosting this woman. Feeding on her.

"He says he needs to hear what happened to me-"

Martin stopped the recording, abruptly sick with himself. This wasn't going to get any better if he spent more time listening to the recording. He had to _do_ something.

Of course, that left the question of _what_ he should do, and unfortunately he had no idea. Someone needed to face Jon and tell him, tell him this wasn't okay. He couldn't keep doing this.

Martin was halfway through composing a note to Basira when a pang of worry hit him. He could imagine Jon saying the words on the tape. _Need_ , the woman had said he'd said. Jon was very particular about how he used his words.

Well. There was nothing to be done until he returned from fucking _Ny-Alesund_. Martin exhaled and tried to put it out of his mind.

* * *

[Now]

Martin doesn't quite catch his breath before he's up, pulling on his trousers with shaky hands. Jon is silent, unmoving except for where his gaze tracks Martin across the room.

Martin walks outside without another word.

It's cold. He wishes he'd taken a jacket before swanning off to Jon's apartment. But Jon never asked until the last possible second, and when he did, off they went, lest Jon snack on some poor traumatized soul.

Well. Poor, unconsenting traumatized soul.

It takes Martin a while to notice where he's going. A bit longer to notice how quiet it is, how the streets seem abandoned. He stops and looks around him. Looks down to see the fog roiling about his feet.

"Fuck's sake," he mumbles, and looks for a bench to sit this out. Previous experience indicates he could be here anywhere from an hour to a few days. Might as well sit. He checks his pockets, takes out his phone (no reception. Of course) and stifles a curse when he can't find any snacks, nor a bottle of water.

Even so, being here is a relief. The cool fog tamps down on the heat of humiliation, and nobody is watching here. Nobody cares about Martin, which is true anyway; at least here there's nobody around to notice how fucked up he is.

He cries, long and ugly, torn between relief and guilt that he didn't let Jon see this indignity as well.

* * *

[Then]

Jon startled when he noticed Martin in his office. It was a tiny, petty triumph. Maybe this was how Peter felt all the time.

"Martin." Was it his imagination, or did Jon's eyes look hungry, scanning him up and down? "I... haven't seen you in a while."

Martin really wished this could have continued to be the case. He slapped the tape recorder on the table and played it without another word.

"...I can explain," Jon said, when the tape ran out. Then he sighed. "No, I don't suppose I can." He spread his arms. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll come to me next time." Martin spoke quickly: the words felt uncomfortably hot in his throat, like spitting out an ember.

He hadn't seen Jon stunned in several months, and he savored the sight. Another petty triumph. "Pardon?"

"If you need somebody's unprocessed supernatural trauma," Martin gave an uncomfortable laugh, "come ask me. I've got plenty."

Jon's expression was completely unreadable. "Aren't you going to tell me to stop doing it at all?"

"Are you going to?"

Eyes downcast, voice low, Jon said, "I could try."

He sounded as likely to succeed as Martin had ever been when embarking on a diet, which is to say, not at all. "Skip it. Come to me. It'll save everyone the awkwardness when you snap and binge on a dozen people's brains." He didn't wait for Jon to answer before leaving.

* * *

[Now]

Martin is just winding down when he hears the soft sound of footsteps in the fog. It would be a comfort, except it's not accompanied by any of the normal noises of civilization. Martin hugs himself and debates closing his eyes. Is it better to die without knowing what killed you, if you don't have a fighting chance anyway?

"Oh," he says, when Peter Lukas' form reveals itself. "It's you."

"You don't need to sound so disappointed." Peter, on the other hand, sounds immensely pleased with himself.

"Are you going to tell me off for fraternizing with Jon?" He sounds bitter to himself. Tired.

Peter chuckles. "Why would I do that? You're doing marvellously." He mimes a very sloppy salute. "Good evening, Martin. Try not to catch a chill. Good assistants are so hard to replace." He keeps walking down the street, until the fog swallows him.

"Wanker," Martin mutters once Peter is out of sight.

* * *

[Then]

Jon had left a note on Martin's desk: _My office. 8pm. Please._ Martin actually got there at quarter to. He spent the time watching Jon type, face scrunched up in fierce concentration.

At five past, Jon looked up. "Oh," he said, once he spotted Martin. "Didn't notice you were here. Sorry."

Martin shrugged. Story of his life, right there. "Do you want to get started?"

"Yes. Please. Sit down." He gestured Martin at the chair he usually had statement givers occupy. "Do you want anything? Tea?"

Lovely time Jon picked to try and be welcoming. Martin wanted to be done with this. "Go ahead and ask."

Jon took a deep breath. "All right. Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding..." He looked up at Martin.

"Recent experiences," Martin said stiffly. He wasn't sure what he'd talk about yet. That time Tim and he were stuck in those endless corridors, maybe.

Jon nodded almost imperceptibly. "Taken from subject by Jon Sims, the Archivist."

Was it Martin's imagination, or did Jon's voice linger on the word _taken_?

It didn't matter. He shook his head and said, "I've wanted you to fuck me since I first saw you." He clapped his hand over his mouth as soon as the words came out.

That got Jon's attention. His eyes widened, and he tilted his head. "Keep going."

Martin's hand dropped on its own accord. "The thing is, I know you're asexual. And I don't want you to do anything you don't want, the idea makes me sick. But I still want you. It's shameful, really, but I can't stop. You're just so, so--" He clenched his jaw shut and looked at Jon with pleading eyes. "You don't want to hear this," he said, with some effort.

"I do want to hear it," Jon said. His skin was too dark for a blush to really show, but Martin wondered if it was there anyway. "But if you don't want to...."

Martin swallowed. "It's not like I expected this to be pleasant. If this is working for you," Jon gave a small nod at Martin's questioning look, "I'll do it." He took a deep breath and let the words come out as they would. "I spend a lot of time looking at your hands. Wondering how they'd feel on, on my dick." Christ. Martin wasn't sure what made him cringe worse, telling Jon about his fantasies or how banal those fantasies were. Uninspired.

On the other hand, Jon's eyes _glittered_ when he looked at Martin, like he was ravenous. Which he was, come to think of it. Maybe humiliation was a form of fear that Jon's patron could feed on.

"Or your fingers in my arse, I'm really not picky. Not that we'd have to do penetration! Or. Um. Any kind of sex."

"That's not likely to happen, no," Jon said, tone flat.

Martin flinched. Speaking of penetration, Jon's eyes felt like they were drilling right through him, a more thorough violation than anything he'd ever experienced. "I want to fuck myself while you watch. My fingers or toys, I have toys. One big sparkly purple one and another one that's black. I've wondered whether either of them looked like, well, you. I've certainly thought of you while using them." It was at this point that Martin realized that he was wretchedly, miserably hard. "I wish I could do that right now. Hell, I don't think I even need to take my trousers off to come, I bet you could make me do it just by talking."

Jon's face might as well have been made of stone for all Martin could read him. "Is that what you want?" There was a very faint crackle of static as he spoke.

"Yes," Martin whispered. He closed his eyes.

When Jon said " **Come** ," the word hit Martin's body like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping, his pants dirtied.

Even now, apparently, Martin could not shut up. "I, I think of people seeing me when I'll leave. Looking like this. They'll know what I've done." He gulped in a breath. "It makes me want to get hard all over again." He could feel the weight of all those judging eyes even now.

"Should I tell you to have another erection?" Jon's voice was a study in neutrality.

Martin wilted. "Best if you don't." As his arousal waned, the idea turned from mortifying and arousing into merely mortifying.

Jon nodded. "Is there anything else?" Martin shook his head. "Statement ends." Next to Jon, a tape recorder clicked itself off. Martin did not remember seeing it turn on, but then, he'd been distracted.

The next thing Martin remembered was his own office, with the peculiar silence outside which signified that he'd slipped into the Lonely. He buried his head in his hands and did his best not to think.

* * *

[Now]

Some time later, no knowing how long, a passing car startles Martin from an unintended nap. It's still dark out, though, so probably not very long, by comparison. He sighs and trundles home.

He'd cleaned his flat not so long ago, in a fit of adrenaline driven by the notion that Jon might ask to have their little confessionals at Martin's. A futile worry: so far, apart from the first time, every time they met has been at Jon's. It's a nicer place, certainly, if not much larger. Jon's a tidy man, tidier than Martin is by nature, or else he was struck by a similar panic when he invited Martin to his.

Martin doesn't remember his dreams, but he wakes up with tears on his cheeks and sticky sheets.

The next day is unremarkable, collecting forms for Peter to sign when he next deigns to show his face and putting out minor administrative fires. Dull and exhausting. Same for the day after, and the day after that.

On the fourth day, another note appears on Martin's desk, and he lets out a startled breath. His hands shake a bit when he handles the note. A time, Jon's place, nothing outside the ordinary. Martin looks down at himself and curses. It's not that it matters what he wears, not really, but he can be excused for not wanting to face Jon while looking quite this threadbare.

 _Not to worry,_ says a voice in his head that sounds like Peter. _You won't be keeping them on for long, anyway._

The rest of the day passes like a bladder stone, but it passes, and that's what matters. Finally Martin is stood in Jon's doorway, pushing the doorbell with trembling fingers.

A shameful little part of Martin thrills at how quickly the door opens, almost before his fingers are off the bell. At how intent Jon's eyes are on him, before he's even said a word. Jon gestures him inside, and Martin goes to sit on the sofa, hands folded primly in his lap.

"Right," Jon says. "Tell me."

"I really want to eat your arse," Martin says, and shuts his eyes in despair. His mouth keeps going without his input. "I keep imagining what you'll taste like, feel like, sound like. I know it's selfish, but really, so is everything I've told you so far. And I do want it, that -- intimacy. To feel close to you in that way." He stops for breath and waits for Jon to interject, as he usually does, that this was not going to happen.

What Jon says instead is, "Give me a moment." He walks to the bathroom. Martin waits confused and half-hard.

On the list of things he was expecting, Jon coming back into the room sans pants was not very high. It was not, in fact, on the list at all. Martin's eyes zoom to Jon's crotch, only to realize Jon doesn't have the equipment Martin had been imagining. "Didn't know you were trans," Martin says, inanely.

"You do now," Jon says with equanimity. "Does that make a difference?" He sounds distantly curious, but his hands are clenching into fists.

"Oh! Of course, sorry, of course that's fine. You know I think you're lovely." Martin groans. "For the love of God, make me shut up."

A gleam appears in Jon's eyes. "You did have other plans for your mouth, didn't you?"

Martin blinks at him. "You mean you'd let me?"

"No," Jon says, scathing and so perfectly himself that Martin wants to hug him. "I took of my pants so we can have a chat about gender identity. Yes, I'd let you." He pauses. "How should I... arrange myself?"

"Bent over the sofa?" Martin suggests, mouth dry.

Jon complies. "No touching the front parts," he says, partially muffled in the sofa cushions.

"Got it." Martin kneels behind him and tries to get his breathing under some kind of control. He brushes his hand tentatively against Jon's hip. "Can I touch here? Can I hold you like this?" Jon gives muffled assent. Jon's skin feels so hot to the touch that Martin almost pulls back, as though he'd been burned. He moans low in his throat.

"Well?" Jon says, cross and impossibly endearing. "Get on with it."

"Romantic," Martin murmurs. "I want to kiss your thighs." It's half habit by now, to confess these wants.

It's startling as all get out to have Jon say, impatiently, "Then do it."

Jon has some scars on his thighs, and the texture is different against Martin's lips. Martin tastes his skin, tastes sweat and dust, and doesn't faint from desire even though it feels like he's about to. "I thought about this for so long," he says. "So many times." He spreads Jon's cheeks with reverence.

There, Jon smells like soap and tastes like nothing much, skin damp and chilled. He must have gone to wash himself, Martin realizes. That, too, is very Jon, in some kind of way. Martin licks gently over his hole, exploring tightly clenched muscle. He makes no attempt to push inside. Even if Jon's body seemed inclined to let him in, which it does not, it would feel... almost sacrilegious, to do so early.

Instead, Martin kisses him, open-mouthed and hungry, letting his mouth roam over Jon's skin. Experiencing him fully. Licking at his hole, as if in supplication, sliding into deep devotion. Is Jon's breath a little faster, or is Martin imagining?

Martin barely notices his own erection until he does, until he realizes he's thrusting against empty air. He groans and throws himself into eating Jon out as well as he can, licking with abandon. "Please," he says, muffled by flesh. "Please, please let me." He doesn't know what he's asking for. What more could he even want?

His own orgasm takes him by surprise. Perhaps all those times Jon ordered him to come have rewired something in his brain, because there he is, hips snapping and spilling inside his trousers, untouched. He lays his head against Jon's cheek and groans.

It's rather bony. Jon - Martin loves the man, and eating his arse out was _fantastic_ , but Jon was not blessed in the arse department. Still, there's nowhere else Martin would rather be.

"Do you want to keep going?" Jon asks, a few moments later.

Martin's "Yes," is more breathed out than said. He goes on licking Jon for a long time, long after his jaw and knees start hurting. It's good, in an excruciating way. His dick _aches_. He never wants to stop.

Finally Jon says, "I won't come, if that's what you're waiting for."

It isn't, but Martin takes that as his cue to stop. "Thank you," he whispers, staring at the floor.

He leaves the apartment before Jon gets up from the sofa.


End file.
